


Class

by Teland



Category: due South
Genre: Banter, Flirting, Humor, M/M, but i love it, i don't know what i was thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-23
Updated: 1999-09-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 23:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Ray is not a bombshell.





	Class

Welsh ran his hands through his hair, a gesture  
Ray had come to translate as "if I have to glare   
at you any longer I just may get violent."'

At first. These days he was pretty sure it was   
more like "I'm tired of glaring at you, I'm giving   
us both a reprieve, don't push it."

Which, as far as Ray was concerned, made it just   
about time to push. "So you goin' out tonight,   
Lieu?"

The glare returned at nearly full force.   
"Detective?"

Ooooh, the incomplete sentence thing... "Well, I   
was just curious. It's been a tough day --"

"Because of you."

"Because of the abusiveness of the suspect --"

"Because of you."

"Because of me, it's been a tough day --"

"And continues to be a difficult day, Detective."

" -- and I was wondering if you wanted to, you   
know, step out for a drink."

Brief look of confusion softened Welsh's features   
for a moment before resolving into casual   
bemusement. Ray wasn't *entirely* sure what   
bemusement meant, but there was no doubt in his   
mind that Welsh could do it. Easy.

And thinking about fifty-cent words was a helluva  
lot easier than doing... whatever it was he was   
doing. Pushing. Yeah. "You know, a beer, maybe a  
shot of whatever won't kill us 'cause you know it   
only makes ya stronger..."

"While it pleases me to find my subordinates   
quoting dead German philosophers," and there   
was a mild and somehow pleasing stress on the   
word 'subordinate,' a sense that Welsh knew   
precisely what game Ray was playing whether   
he knew what it was himself and was letting   
him, a little, giving him his -- "... martini."

"Martini?"

"You have some difficulty with the concept,  
Vecchio?"

"Shaken, not stirred? All that cr -- business? You  
just never struck me as the martini type, Lieu."

"Welsh."

Ray grinned. "Kowalski."

"Not in this office."

Then where? Ray settled back in the hard, wooden  
chair. Grinned some more. "'k, Lieu."

"A bad martini is precious, pretentious, and,   
essentially, not worth a damn. But a good   
martini..."

"Elucidate it for me."

One corner of Welsh's mouth quirked twice,   
briefly. Two, count 'em, two separate grins that  
needed to be restrained. "A good martini is a   
mild, subtle thing. A blend of diverse flavors   
coming together to provide a wonderful --   
perhaps even the ultimate -- after-work   
beverage."

"Not a beer?"

"Not a beer."

"Not a shot?"

"Not unless you want to wander down the   
road to AA."

"But isn't it the same amount of alcohol?"

"Ah, I fear you're missing my point, Detective,"   
he was playing along, definitely playing. "A   
beer is a beer."

"I can follow that."

"A shot is the first of what is always a surprisingly  
small collection of steps toward inebriation."

"I think that's a pretty narrow interpretation --"

"You don't get paid to think, Detective."

"No, it's true, I *have* always been the pretty one."  
According to his mother, Ray had perfected   
insolence well before speech. This was familiar   
ground.

"And just how long has it been since your last   
psych evaluation?"

"I assure you, Lieu, I am just as hinged as I have  
always been."

Non-committal grunt. "As I was *saying*..."

Ray dutifully arranged himself into Attentive,   
collected his third aborted smile.

"A good martini, a martini made with care,   
attention, and respect for both the ingredients   
and the patron in question is a fine, fine thing.   
It adds a little -- dare I say a *touch* of -- class   
to any man's day."

"A little class."

"A touch of class."

"So you do dare."

"Excuse me?"

"You did that question thing, that dare I say thing.  
You just dared."

Welsh shook his head, but didn't bother to restrain  
his smile. "Dismissed, Vecchio."

"Yessir."

*

Of course, not even reliving the day's earlier   
conversation could explain precisely why he was   
here, at Webster's Bar -- Ray had long since   
grown accustomed to his mind collecting   
information without his conscious direction --   
and in full drag.

Mind you, there probably wasn't anything that  
could explain this, but the earlier conversation   
probably came as close as anything else, and   
besides, it had the benefit of temporal proximity.

He was spending too much time around Fraser.

Of course, if he hadn't been spending so much   
time with his unofficial partner he would probably  
still be wearing those garish colors he'd purchased  
for years. Fraser had patiently explained to Ray   
that he was a winter, and honestly, that made his   
trips through the makeup aisles infinitely more   
fruitful.

Yes, the blend of paler reds and darker browns   
suited him quite nicely if he did say so himself...   
though he still wasn't sure about the blonde wig.

Sure, he was blond himself, but there was   
something so... concrete about long, blonde hair.  
Which was just ridiculous. If you were wearing   
uncomfortable pumps, stockings, shockingly   
itchy garters, and a simple dark brown shift,   
you really had no right to balk at a wig... 

But he'd kinda dug being a raven-haired beauty. 

The new wig was also Fraser's suggestion, but   
Ray wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't just Frase   
wanting to be the only Snow White in the fairy   
tale troupe. 

Well, he'd see.

And here he was.

She?

Nah, he. Fraser might get into that whole   
embracing his inner woman deal, but as far as   
Ray was concerned he would be a guy until the  
minute when he *wasn't* helplessly aware of   
the fact that one overly vigorous wriggle could   
shake some very important bits of his anatomy  
free.

Ray did a mental inventory of himself and   
revised -- he probably could wriggle all he   
wanted, really. He'd gotten better at this since   
that first crazy, tipsy, afterglowing realization   
that he'd stumbled out of Stella's old high   
school bedroom with binding silk under his   
jeans as opposed to simple cotton, since later  
that day, behind the athletic fields, when Stella   
had made him show her...

Ray shifted in as subtle a fashion as possible   
and walked into the bar.

Quiet, just-barely danceable jazz coming from   
tastefully hidden speakers. 

Sweet pipe and cigar smoke.

Lots and lots of dark wood.

Exactly one female of the species present -- and   
she was wearing the same uniform of mildly   
rumpled dress shirt, loosened tie, and suit pants   
as everyone else. He liked those odds.

Welsh sat alone in the far corner, apparently   
focused entirely on the marvel of a martini   
held gently between his blunt thumb and blunter   
forefinger.

Ray sauntered over.

Well, OK, he walked, but heels + shift = some   
measure of saunter, whether you wanted it or   
not.

Welsh didn't look up until Ray had brushed one   
nylon -- silk was for formal occasions only --   
covered thigh against the thankfully well-sanded   
wood of his table. And then he looked up slowly.   
Ray treasured the smooth little smile that graced   
the other man's face as his gaze moved up over   
thigh to flat belly to gently enhanced chest to   
throat to Adam's apple --

Welsh blinked, quickly looked up into Ray's   
ready grin.

"Hey, Lieu."

"Welsh." He sounded moderately strangled.

"Kowalski."

"Not --"

"Do you really think Vecchio could pull off a   
Donna Karen?"

"Ray."

"Rachel?"

"You want me to call you Rachel?"

"Would you?"

"No."

"Well, then, I'll settle for Ray. Or Kowalski." He sat   
down across from Welsh, sliding a little on the   
well-buffed leather of the bench, folded his hands   
on the table, and waited.

Welsh couldn't seem to decide where to settle his  
gaze, but this was a reaction Ray was accustomed  
to. It was just harder to look a man in the eyes   
when there was eye-shadow and mascara involved.   
He abruptly decided not to make things any easier.

"Buy a lady a drink?"

Welsh signaled the waiter reflexively, winced,   
glared, shook his head, glared some more, and   
by that time there was some college-aged kid at   
the table with a water-logged notepad. "A   
martini for... my companion."

Ray beamed. "Does this mean you think I'm   
classy?"

Heavenward gaze. "Detective."

"Ray."

"Detective --"

"Kowalski."

"*You*."

"Yes?"

Welsh opened and closed his mouth twice before  
speaking. "There are... so many, many things I   
could say at this moment."

Ray giggled. "Oh, Lieu..."

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Right now? Waiting for my martini."

"I'm still armed."

"So am I." Ray could feel the perfection of the grin  
on his face.

"I wasn't talking about --" Welsh gave a uniquely   
human snarl, scrubbed his fingers through his   
hair. "Your voice suddenly went up. On the 'oh,  
Lieu.' You weren't bothering with... with that   
before."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that, De -- Ve-- *you*. And you also giggled.  
What was that about?"

"I was being coy."

"Coy?"

"Yes."

"Don't do that."

"OK. I'm attracted to you, clean, and almost   
entirely single. Wanna have sex?"

Consternation. That was definitely the word for   
the expression on Welsh's face. There might   
have been a moment of shock, but it was too   
brief to be confirmed. 

"I'm pretty sure I could give you a good time,   
Lieu."

"Kowalski, do you have a death wish?"

"I love it when you call me by my name."

"Where... is this some kind of prank? Do you   
really want me to put you --"

"Vecchio."

" -- on report? You'd pin this on Vecchio?"

"Oh, c'mon, he's got more than enough macho   
to absorb the shame of it all. Besides, no one   
has to know you're fucking Ray Kowalski,   
bombshell extraordinaire."

"I'm not... oh, no. This isn't... I wouldn't call   
you a bombshell."

"No?" 

"You're not really... substantial enough to be   
a bombshell."

"Well, that's not very nice --"

"Marilyn Monroe, now, *she* was a bombshell.   
You're much more of a Twiggy."

"Twiggy?"

Ostentatiously critical onceover. "A man needs   
someone with a little meat on his bones,   
Kowalski."

Ray narrowed his eyes. "I'd say you've got more  
than enough for both of us. Besides, you might  
find my meat quotient surprisingly high.

"Not to even mention the bone."

Brief chuckle, shaken off. "What are you *doing*,  
Kowalski? Is this something... is the undercover   
gig --"

And that was way too much thinking. "I want   
you."

Bright flash of something indescribable in the  
normally, deceptively sleepy dark eyes, followed  
by another head shake. "Look --"

"Do you think I'd do..." Broad gesture at himself.   
"Do you think I'd do all this if I just wanted to   
bitch about having to be some other guy for a   
while? You may have noticed that I see identity   
as being kind of a flexible thing, Welsh." Which  
wasn't entirely true, but...

"And you thought dressing up as a woman   
would be a good way to trip your sup --"

"Vecchio's."

"Your superior officer into bed?"

Ray grinned again, a bit more shamelessly than   
before. "Hey, I was just trying to make it easier   
for ya. I don't know too much about your   
preferences."

"You thought putting on a dress --"

"And assorted carefully chosen accessories."

"Would make me more likely to sleep with you."

"Was I right?"

"You've got exceedingly knobby knees, Kowalski."

"Hey, you weren't objecting when you were giving  
me the eye before, don't think I didn't... catch   
that." Under the table, a warm, broad hand had   
shaped itself to his leg, fingertips just brushing  
at the hem of his dress.

"I happen to be quite fond of knobby knees."

"This could be the start of a beautiful friendship,  
Lieu."

"But not if you keep calling me 'Lieu.'"

"Gotcha."

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Archilochus 60
> 
> I don't like a big general or one with long straddling legs,  
Or one vain about his curls or who is partly shaven.  
I'd like to see him small, with crooked knees,  
Standing firmly on his feet, full of heart.


End file.
